


Eulogy

by Cinnaberry



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Crystal Tower 2: The Search for More WoL, Feelings, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Male Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Masturbation, Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), One Shot, Other, Pre-Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers, Unrequited Love, this is really just super feelsy gratuitous emotional porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:35:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23194861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinnaberry/pseuds/Cinnaberry
Summary: G'raha's mind, at the most inopportune of times, is his worst enemy.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	Eulogy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NilNova](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NilNova/gifts).



> A work by me, featuring a named WoL? Say it isn't so!
> 
> The WoL mentioned in this fic is actually the WoL of a friend of mine! I wrote this for him because we're both thirsty terrors and our current work is on hold for RL reasons, but I wanted to keep the creative juices flowing. Nevermind the fact that it took me a little over three months to actually finish writing this, oops.
> 
> In our continuity, the WoL and G'raha were not in any sort of relationship during the Crystal Tower storyline. In fact, they were more or less just acquaintances: G'raha's bravado and attempts to impress actually ended up triggering F'lori's anxiety super hard, so they were never very close friends, but G'raha respected him and found him inspiring all the same.
> 
> End notes have a short write-up + screenshot of F'lori!

For hardly the first time in his life, G'raha Tia felt as if his mind was slowly turning into pudding.

The pages of a thin tome clapped shut with a deep and heavy thud that briefly bounced off of the even thinner canvas walls of the tent, and the historian lifted a hand to his face, his fingertips massaging closed and burning eyes. It was difficult to say just how much time had passed since he'd settled down to sort through the stack of texts that had been rescued earlier in the day, but the dim light of the sun was not yet casting shadows on his walls from the outside, so he considered his habits at least marginally improved from his more scholarly days. Despite the small victory, however, he knew that he'd still been at his task since well before supper - and he'd had to be reminded of the meal, besides - and his body was all but begging for respite.

Tugging his cloak more firmly around his shoulders, he leaned enough to place the book on a respectable pile of more. The day's haul had been significantly more lucrative than the last couple of attempts: a series of journals, seemingly penned by the Warrior of Light himself at the request of one Khloe Aliapoh - a survivor of the Calamity, though long dead regardless. They were more scattered accounts of battles and adventures than anything else, but any text involving his quarry could potentially hold even the tiniest tidbit of information relevant to their cause. The fact that the Warrior himself had once held and written in those books made them altogether more precious, in his eyes. Would that they smelled more of the man that had written them and less of nearly two centuries of storage, but a beggar could not afford to choose.

The thought made G'raha laugh bitterly, shaking his head to dismiss such a ridiculous notion as he closed his book of notes and set it atop the stack. Hells, he could only just barely recall the sound of the Warrior's voice, as rarely as he'd had the pleasure of hearing it, let alone what the man _smelled_ like.

His fingers lingered on the binding of the journal beneath his notes for just a moment, breath unconsciously holding in his chest. It was enough for him to simply touch something that had been in the other man's possession for however long, to read the neatly printed words that spelled out firsthand accounts of daring encounters the likes of which G'raha knew he'd never see. The world he'd awakened to was a dying place. Long gone from the minds of most men were the days of dragons and primals, replaced by the fears of simply surviving to see another day.

Luckily for the sake of a brighter future, G'raha's mind had ever been focused on more grandiose histories.

With a soft sigh, the Seeker flopped back on his bedroll, letting the back of his wrist lay against his eyes. Every new expedition to retrieve tomes and ledgers and memoirs brought him that much closer to tracking down a point in time where he'd be able to find the Warrior of Light before all went awry, and while the rest of the world longed for the Warrior to save them, all that G'raha could focus on was the man behind the title. F'lori - Fauhn, his surname had apparently been, which raised plenty more questions that G'raha couldn't find the answers to - was more than just the Warrior of Light. He was an adventurer, an _inspiration_ , but he was also just a man. A very mortal man with mortal flaws, which many of the books he'd found ignored entirely in favor of painting a picture of some majestic hero akin to a god. Though they'd never really forged much in the way of what G'raha would call a true friendship, he still knew that F'lori was far from some perfect, flawless being - no one was, not even a vaunted hero.

It occurred to G'raha, then, that aside from perhaps the dragons - wherever they'd holed up to avoid the sudden plague of savagery among men - he was the only one left alive that really knew the Warrior of Light as a person instead of a legend. The only one left alive that knew what he _looked like,_ no less. Anyone living presently had only ever heard embellished stories and, if they were lucky, seen an illustration in a book that only got two things correct: the fact that F’lori had been both male and a Miqo’te. His breath caught against the back of his teeth with a sharp noise as they bared themselves in a slowly smoldering frustration. Just a couple of weeks ago, he’d seen a quite ostentatious color piece in a book that had F’lori’s hair long, flowing, and golden. _Golden!_ As if the artist had never even bothered to do any sort of research and simply decided to take a bit of artistic license instead! Factual inaccuracies due to the passage of time had always been one of G’raha’s biggest scholarly irritations, but when it came to the subject of his inspiration, it seemed even more personally offensive.

After all, even if he couldn’t quite recall the timbre of the Warrior’s voice, he could very clearly see in his mind’s eye the shades of warm earth dappled with sunlight, hanging down and framing eyes like the first pale hint of green on early spring trees. If those that had known him personally had neglected to depict him properly even in written word, they had done both F’lori and the surviving population a terrible disservice.

Getting angry over the failings of fellow historians, however, would do him no favors in actually getting _rest_. G’raha rubbed his face, rolling to his side in irritation and growling softly into his palms. The excitement of the day and the research of the night had left his body exhausted, but his mind was positively _buzzing,_ and a lively mind had never been one to let him sleep so easily. He envied those that could simply lay down and fall into unconsciousness; it had never been a skill that he’d been able to master, and very little worked to lull him into a tired haze when his head was too worked up to sleep. Only reading to the point of passing out at his desk, or one other thing. One other, far more _personal_ thing.

Biting his lower lip, he angled his ears toward the outside of his tent. The only sounds he could pick up were the soft, muffled noises of those on watch duty for the evening, which likely meant that everyone else was sleeping, but for G’raha it was a blessing. It meant that, as long as he remained quiet and quick about it, he could at least tire himself out in relative peace. It only took a quick stretch of his arms up and over his head to reach into the travel pack that he kept on hand, and a short moment of blind fumbling later his fingers wrapped around the cool glass of a small, narrow vial.

Masturbation was a completely normal and natural thing. Everyone did it at some point in their lives, particularly in the throes of young adult hormonal surges. It was just a fact of life - and one that the alchemists of the Ironworks took well into account. For all that the world had gone to hell around them, simple pleasures could be a breath of fresh air, and while finding a couple of vials slipped into his personal effects had been incredibly embarrassing G’raha had since found himself silently grateful on more than one occasion.

The sticky warmth of the daytime air had had little effect on the contents, he discovered, the viscous liquid cool against his palm as he tipped a bit out. With practiced ease G’raha slipped his hand beneath the waist of his trousers and the smallclothes beneath, and to his credit he only winced for just a half-second as the chill slick on his hand made contact with his still-soft length. A few strokes was all he needed to solve both problems, however, and as his hand began to move he let his head lay back and his eyes slip closed, falling into a familiar routine of a blank mind and a moving fist. The entire process was banal and utilitarian, but when simply trying to exhaust himself, it was all he had ever really needed.

It was surprising, then, for G’raha’s mind to begin to wander.

 _‘You’re the last person alive that truly knew the Warrior of Light’,_ an echo of a thought whispered in his mind, and all at once G’raha found himself very clearly visualizing F’lori, bronzed skin glistening with sweat and hair sticking to his forehead as if he'd just returned from being coerced into wrangling a capricious chocobo. His hand came to an abrupt halt, heat flaring startlingly in his cheeks as shame rose thick into his throat and his eyes snapped open to half-focus on the roof of his tent in horror at himself. It was inappropriate. It was _absolutely_ inappropriate. Touching himself with the image of F’lori in mind, no matter how innocent, seemed so… so _disrespectful,_ so distasteful. The idea of fantasizing about a deceased person, especially one that he’d never had any sort of romantic relationship with, was something that only a degenerate would consider.

Attempting to shove the errant thought from his mind, G'raha bit down on his lip and tried once more to just finish the job with no thoughts other than reaching his climax. He tried, certainly. Unfortunately, even at the best of times the mind sometimes had its own agenda, and he very quickly had to stop himself again as this time his imagination kick-started itself with the very _detailed_ thought of the small amount of tomes taken from Ishgard that were presently at the bottom of a very large stack for a very good reason. He groaned, then, an unfortunately loud but blessedly brief sound that he'd have liked to deny was not completely one of frustration, and rolled to his side with his tail beating a heavy thud against his bedroll. _`Must my mind torment me so?!'_ he thought bitterly, chewing his lip in annoyance and disgust.

The books his mind had brought to question had been… _enlightening,_ to say the least, though G'raha could safely say that he knew an attempt to cash in on the popularity of anything pertaining to the Warrior of Light when he saw one, and particularly when it came to F'lori's supposed bedroom conquests. He'd come across more than enough ten-gil Ishgardian romance novels in his search for information, and he doubted that the kind, soft-spoken Miqo’te of his memory would be so keen on using such _detailed_ language, much less any of the acts so often depicted upon those pages.

It was quickly becoming apparent, however, that G'raha's mind was perhaps _too_ active for a simple and utilitarian handling of things, and he sighed deeply in defeat. So be it, then. As much shame as it brought him, he would just have to let his mind roam where it wished.

With reluctant slowness, the historian began to slide his palm against his cock once more, thumb rubbing flat against the head at the peak of each upward stroke. The crease between his brows softened, lips just barely parting as each stroke grew confidently faster, and soon the tent was filled with the soft sounds of muffled breaths and slick movement of skin on skin. Visions gradually began to dance in his mind's eye, though of far less lewd things than the Ishgardian books would have even considered - memories, he realized sluggishly, though the attention to detail was sharp in an entirely focused way that nearly caught him off-guard.

The soft, patient smile on Flori's face as he tended to his large, red chocobo. The way the setting sun could hit his hair in just the right way to make the highlights look like molten gold. How, just a time or two, he'd caught the subtle scent of water and earth clinging to the other man as if he'd just come from wading in a forest stream.

Tears began to prick hot at the corners of G'raha's closed eyes, a sudden surge of loss and longing and pain threatening to choke him into hesitation, but he dared not stop again. If F'lori was to be remembered, in his own mind or otherwise, he would be remembered _properly_. 

G'raha's climax hit him hard and fast, sending him toppling blindly over the edge and leaving him gasping for breath between clipped and muffled sounds, his muscles straining for a long few seconds before loosening into an overwhelmingly warm bonelessness with the fuzzy edges of satisfied exhaustion. He lay on his bedroll for a moment, simply breathing and staring at the stacks of books beside him until they became blurry, and he realized belatedly that the tears had never actually stopped.

The sob that broke free from his lips startled him, and another one quickly followed as he curled in on himself, his chest positively _aching_ with the sudden onset of grief. The last time he'd felt anything so intense had been his first moment alone, when he'd first truly, personally mourned the death of the Warrior of Light. The grief he felt now was less an echo and more a reprise, but it stung as if it were fresh all the same.

What had happened to F'lori wasn't fair. G'raha had long since given up on any chance of ever finding his own happiness, both in his search for answers and his dedication to the future, but F'lori had had any happiness ripped from his hands without even being able to fight for it. 

He wasn't quite certain how long he lay there quietly bleeding his sorrow into the crook of his arm, mess still coating his other hand, but by the time his tears had dried he was certain of one thing: the combination of mental, physical, and emotional draining had left him floating dangerously close to the precipice of sleep. A wrinkle of his nose accompanied the blind search for a discarded shirt, and the second that he had wiped his hand clean he made sure that he was securely tucked back into his smallclothes. A vague thought of consideration, should anyone come to rouse him for breakfast.

As sleep began to dig its claws into the edges of his consciousness, G'raha pulled his cloak tighter around himself in lieu of a blanket and tucked his tail snug against the back of one leg. Guilt still clung weakly to his conscience, but exhaustion begged him to worry about it later when his eyes stung less from salt and sleep. For the time being, committing himself to getting a solid night's rest for the good of his search was as much penance as he could manage.

 _'Wait for me, F'lori,'_ he urged silently, his vision darkening as his eyes refused to remain open any longer. _'I'm not far behind. I'll find you, and I'll return your happiness. I swear it.'_

**Author's Note:**

> About F'lori:
> 
> "F’lori Fauhn was born on the 13th Sun of the 2nd Astral Moon (March 13) in the year 1556. Raised as an outsider in his own family and suffering from impostor syndrome and some serious social anxiety, F’lori is far more comfortable holding a weapon than holding eye contact. His mother was a Keeper of the Moon in the Wood Wailers, while his father was a roaming Tia of the F tribe that his mother never breathed a word about. His childhood was uniquely unhappy for a good many reasons, but most of his struggles with anxiety, self-esteem and difficulty speaking plainly in front of groups and people he respects come directly from the neglect he suffered as a child.
> 
> Despite his mixed heritage, he boasts almost exclusively Seeker traits with the exception of his unusually long and thicker-furred tail and a wider-than-typical range of how much his pupils can dilate. (The latter is, of course, based on headcanons regarding Seekers vs. Keepers.) Due to looking so much like his unknown father and nothing like his mother - alongside the circumstances surrounding his birth - the more superstitious members of his mother’s family considered him a bad omen. His tendency to accidentally get into trouble, the early manifestation of his Echo, and particularly his bright green slit-pupiled eyes - a distinct contrast, when the entire rest of the family’s were dark and heterochromatic - branded him as “unlucky.”
> 
> His mother and two of his half-sisters died at Carteneau, at which point he became a wanderer for several years and eventually fell in with the Scions in ARR soon after joining the Gladiator’s Guild. He was a Paladin when G’raha knew him, but he cast aside his shield and became a Dark Knight in the anguish following the patch 2.55 banquet and has never looked back, though he also has some skill as a Machinist. Truly, though, having grown up in Camp Tranquil, F’lori is a FSH main at heart and always has been.
> 
> His canon mount is a female Amber Draught Chocobo named Blossom, and he is the leader of the FC Vow of the Wayfarer. His ears are almost always held back and low due to his shyness."
> 
> Screenshot [here](https://tinyurl.com/uxhehlr)!


End file.
